The Last Philosopher

Four in the chamber

"What are you doing here," Sulenthvorenth yelled, as if Lyeasrakardsul was some lost sorcling that needed a swift kick up the backside.

Shock left him standing on the blood red carpet feeling like all the blood had drained out of him. The four other heads were already seated in the dome of wasted hours. And his good mood was crushed, like the head of an unruly sorcerer in Drik's granite hands.

"Me? What are you all doing here? The morning meeting will not start for forty-five minutes!" There was a crack of panic in his voice.

"We had... special circumstances to discuss."

"What circumstances? Nobody told me about any circumstances!" His insides were approaching full blown hysteria.

Wobbling of the carpet, he went and poured himself a glass of lukewarm water. The stuffy chamber was more oppressive than ever. He pretended to consider the half-rotten fruit, or terrible coffee, standing on a square table in the room where everything else was round. Normally, no one touched the stuff, but it gave his hands something to do.

"Please, just tell him why we are here," Noertdel whispered, before coughing and adjusting his glasses.

He and the Macbiar head got along as well as can be expected for two council members. Meaning they hated each other mostly out of habit, and not with the usual vengeance.

"You be quiet! And stop trying to cover your flatulence with coughs! Everyone can hear it," the man-beard roared.

Zhetoniss laughed out loud, he always took the opportunity to add to the nervous man's embarrassment. Even when he wasn't the direct cause. It made the Dwarf smile, it was not something he did well. Noertdel's blubbery face turned red and he pulled out a hankie to wipe himself down.

That was unnecessary, he thought using the shift in focus to take his seat, Noertdel is so sensitive about his health issues.

For his part, he considered the Macbiar head a friend. He knew the fat man was false, and would gladly bad-mouth him to increase his own standing. Still, in Pentakl, that was as close to a real friend as one could get.

"I agree with Noertdel," he said ignoring the flatulence comment, "please inform me what is going on."

"Fine!" Sulenthvorenth turned on his Xefef voice putting the force of magick into his words, "the circumstance is YOU!"

The Dwarf was an expert at angry yelling, and adding voice brought the discomfort to another level. They all flinched as it came on, except of course for Drik, the magick resistant Troll.

"Me? You are discussing me?"

Having a morning meeting without informing all headmasters was almost unheard off, even if one of them was the topic.

But there's no rule that says he can't have a meeting without you, the bureaucrat in him conformed to the norm.

"Have you, or have you not, been to see the Knomes!" Zhetoniss demanded.

The Loitar head, who always smelt of spring-time and fresh cut grass, had a way of getting straight to the point. It got him an angry look from the man-beard. Like a cat with a mouse, Sulenthvorenth had wanted to toy with his prey.

"Oh that, well... yes, but I can explain."

"Explain! Explain he says, sure, explain why you went to see those disgusting critters! Explain why you went inside their filthy cavern!"

The Xefef head was like a dog with a bone. He finally had something on the old man, and he wasn't about to give it up without a fight.

But he's not getting me into a peer-review, not even a secret one!

That was the most lenient and least embarrassing version of the peer-review punishments.

"Maybe you can inform us! What could be so important as to warrant this heinous act of disloyalty?"

Heinous act of disloyalty, nice touch. Lyeasrakardsul stroked his beard and waited to reply.

He was waiting to see if it would annoy the Dwarf further, or if the twitch in his beard would subside. Gauging exactly how much smugness he could get away with.

"Here is the thing... I had a p-wyrd," he cheerfully said at last.

The chamber went dead silent. As reverse-agnostics the headmasters knew, that just like shite, prophecies also happen. Still, they were trying hard to seem unimpressed. Sorcerers may feel that the only thing worth celebrating was personal achievement, but that in no way meant they want to celebrate the achievements of others.

"Are you saying you had the first p-wyrd sent to a sorcerer?" There was a hint of uncertainty in Sulenthvorenth's demeanour.

"Yes." He had dreaded telling them about the prophecy, but since he could rub it in the council's collected face it felt a lot more natural.

"You are a liar!"

"No, or well, admittedly we are all excellent liars. But in this case I am telling the truth."

"Even if it is true," the Xefef head paused, the situation was slipping through his sturdy hands, "it still does not explain why you went to see the Knomes!"

He's right, his inner sorcerer thought. Didn't I say you should get permission.

"Technically, there is no rule that says I cannot meet with the Knomes, just like you can have a meeting without me."

His confidence surprised himself and his inner sorcerer. The room went quiet again. He could imagine the Dwarf's crumpled up face hidden in the beard, furious for getting called out on his own hypocrisy.

"Um," Drik's rumble interrupted.

His Troll wit, like a rock, needed a mountain side to roll down before it picked up speed. It gave the two arguing headmasters, the immovable object and the unstoppable force, a moment to think about the impasse they were heading to.

"Why g," the Troll stopped, his granite eyebrows moving up and down as he spelt out the word in his head.

"Why g-o-d send us p-wyrd? They hate us! For not have belief!"

The grey lichen hanging of his chin stopped moving, and he went back to looking like another boulder that had rolled in and sat down. Sorcerers have never believed that there are no stupid questions — there were far to many morons on Huom for that to be true — but surprisingly, this wasn't a dumb question.

Updated: 20.09.2023